Fishing with Joel - by Sally I. Stoner »

I was working on a story when my friend, Joel, called.
“Oh gawd,” he moaned, “You’re not writing a ‘fishing with Joe’ story are you?”
Even though we were on the phone and he couldn’t see me, I shook my head vigorously from side to side.
“Naw, no way. It’s not like that at all.” I had no idea what he meant, but I sure wasn’t about to admit it nor was I going to tell him I was writing about him.
It was actually a ‘fishing with Joel’ story, since he was Joel and we did fish together. In fact we’d been fishing together for over forty years. There were a few years when we drifted off in different directions, but since that hiatus we were making up for the time we’d missed on the river.
Actually, fishing with Joel is more like a big adventure than a pleasant outing. There is always some element of daring involved. This trip would add to the legend. It started out innocently enough. Joel and his wife were making the big move out of the Bay Area. They purchased a handsome piece of land in New Mexico, sold their Mountain View home, and were busy packing.
In the midst of chaotic sorting through thirty years of accumulated stuff, their champion Saluki had a litter of pups...very expensive pups, and Joel decided he needed to fish Hat Creek one last time. His first attempt to cast a fly was into this revered water, and he wanted to say farewell. Needless to say, his wife was less than thrilled. She was staying home to look after the puppies, continue packing, and keep up with her extremely demanding consulting business.
With the blithe intention of a true fly fisher, Joel loaded the suv with tackle and dog, and I roared up the cul-de-sac in time to fill what empty space was left with my gear and dog. As we waved goodbye to his wife, I thought I saw a column of smoke rise above her head.
Arriving in Burney, we checked into the Charm Motel and headed to Carbon Bridge section of Hat Creek to fish the evening hatch. It was the first week in May and rather chilly, so we tugged on our neoprene waders and wandered downstream. After about a half of mile, I peeled off to fish and Joel kept walking. I like watching him walk. He has a nonchalant swing to his legs, which makes his gait very distinct even in waders. We grew up on the same block in LA and I would watch him walk home from my house. It’s funny what odd quirks endear you to another, but I can pick him out of a crowd if he’s walking.
It had been several years since I fished Hat. I didn’t even know the island at ph#2 had dissolved down stream. The banks were riddled with muskrat excavations, and there was alarming silting. I waded across a riffle, leaving my dog on the bank. He doesn’t like to swim, which makes him an excellent fishing dog. I started casting along a small island, hoping to entice a brown from the undercut. Joel was nowhere in sight.
I worked both sides of the island without a take. Not surprising, since this particular beat on the Hat was never very good to me, but it was wonderful to be in the river. Scout, my dog, kept track of me from the far bank. Crossing back along the solid turf of the island, I stepped off to wade the tail-out below. My foot went deep into silt. I was sucked in up to the middle of my thigh. Startled, I let out a shriek, which only my dog heard.
For a moment I panicked. I thought for sure I would sink slowly over my head. A vision of old cowboy movies with dudes wallowing in quicksand flashed through my brain. It was all I could do to calm myself and assess my predicament. Meanwhile, Scout was having a fit on the bank. He sensed I was struggling and he couldn’t get to me. His yelping only added to the drama of the situation.
Luckily, one leg was still on a solid tuft of ground. Using whatever strength I could muster, and working my free leg as a lever, I rocked my captured leg back and forth attempting to break the suction. Miraculously it loosened, and I was able to free myself. Exhausted with the effort I waded gingerly back across the water to my worried dog.
I sat on the bank to regain my composure and quiet my thumping heart. The day was waning and it was quickly getting frigid. Scout and I roused up from the bank and took off to find Joel. We walked a few hundred yards before we saw him ambling toward us.
“I’m freezing,” he called. “I stepped into a sink hole and filled up my waders. I had to swim to get out.”
My troubles seemed to pale next to his, but I told him anyway as we walked back to the parking area shivering. By the time we rolled into Burney, fed and walked the dogs, it was nearly 9:00pm. We dined on what appeared to be rubber food at the coffee shop near the Charm and staggered back to fall into bed. I should say Joel fell into to bed. I had to do a version of Twister to get into mine, since his dog decided she would sleep with Scout and me. Jessie is also a Saluki and long legged like Joel, so she took up most of the single bed. At least I wouldn’t get cold. Cramped but warm I drifted off to fish the dream trout.
Fall River was our scheduled water the following day. First we had to pick up Joel’s canoe at Val Atkinson’s where he had it parked. We drove just past the Cal Trout Access and onto Val’s property. No one was home and apparently the neighbors were too far away to notice two aging anglers commandeering a canoe from Val’s yard.
Joel is a good six inches taller than I, and we are both rather long in the tooth. Picture a gray haired woman tottering on one end of the craft, while a tall distinguished old guy tries to lift the other end onto the roof rack of his Trooper. I’ll just say it took a few attempts to accomplish, and afterward I needed a nap and a massage.
Instead we drove back to the parking area, lifted the canoe off the Trooper and dragged it down to the water. All the while, the wind was blowing about 100 miles an hour, or so it seemed.
“Don’t you think it is a bit windy,” I asked.
“Nope.” Sometimes Joel is a man of few words.
We tossed in our rods, donned our vests, boarded the two dogs, and shoved off. The wind was blowing upstream so we barely needed to paddle. Which was a good thing, since my dog was running back and forth between us. Scout gets excited when we fish from a boat. Jessie, the big kiss-up sat quietly at Joel’s feet.
By now the wind was blowing so hard there were white caps on the river. Scout continued to run stem to stern, and Joel kept yelling at me to stop wiggling. I was not wiggling. I was trembling from fright. I’m not a swimmer and beside I was wearing about fifteen layers of clothing due to the freezing temperature. I was certain the canoe was going to tip over, and I was going to drown.
After blowing upriver for what seemed like hours, Joel rigged his rod and started casting...a dry fly.
“Are you nuts?” I yelled over the wind. “The chop on the water is so bad there are no bugs hatching.”
“I saw a rise,” the crazy man answered.
I knew he was lying.
Scout was even happier that someone was fishing, so he speeded up his continuous trot back and forth. I was praying now and calculating the distance to the bank I would have to dogpaddle to safety. Finally, I admitted to Joel that I was not having fun.
“Could we bag this now? I whined.
Reluctantly, he agreed. We turned the canoe down river. The wind was blowing even harder and we had to paddle like mad to make any headway. There were swells on the usually serene Fall River so that it felt like we are running against the tide. I knew for sure we were all going to drown now. Even Scout had settled down.
It took an eternity to paddle back to the access. I was never so happy to get off a river in my life. We pulled the canoe out, emptied out the water, and humped our gear to the parking area. We loaded the dogs, changed into dry clothes, and climbed in the Trooper. Then Joel turned to me and said, ”Do you think it’s too windy to play golf?”
Fishing with Joel continued for another couple days. Luckily for me, the adventure quieted down. We did pick up a ratty old drift boat that was more hole than hull. He said it was a project he planned to work on when he settled in New Mexico. The last time I visited it was still untouched. I must confess I miss being able to speed up the peninsula and hang out with him. Now, it takes two days of hard driving to start an expedition with Joel, but I’m game. It must be his walk.
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